Back in Kansas, Toto

The flight to Kansas City was amazingly brief, in contrast with the long and cramped flight from Doha to Washington DC. I set foot in the very familiar airport and almost immediately spotted Elaine, who gave me a hug and drove me to my house. We talked aoubt the trip—particularly Tibet Uprising Day—all the way to Topeka.

I stayed up till past 5 am, finally typing up my handwritten eyewitness account of Tibet Uprising Day, which I e-mailed to the International Campaign for Tibet, Amnesty International, and a bunch of people I know. I also e-mailed a variation to the president of China and the Chinese chair of the Beijing Olympics. I may or may not be banned from China and Tibet. Oh well. I also have reason to believe it will be a challenge to adjust to the time change.

Airports, Continued

Now I’m at the Washington Dulles Airport. I was in a really grumpy mood by the time I finally spotted my suitcase. Too many airports and too many airplanes. Next time I’m definitely only going to one country, unless I’m crossing borders in a tour bus or on a ferry. And my luggage is so heavy—but that’s my own fault, thanks to buying so much in Nepal. On the bright side, I bought lots of gifts. I was doing so well until those last couple days in Nepal.

Because of my flight delay from Kathmandu to Delhi, it was after six when I met up with the driver at the airport, and it was almost seven pm by the time we got to the guesthouse. It was already dark out, even if the weather feels like summer. Not the friendliest of drivers, and he spoke English so fast I had trouble understanding him, but I did mention to him how that I wanted to be picked up again at 4:30 am.

The guesthouse in Delhi was really charming—Lutyens Guesthouse—too bad I couldn’t stay longer and see it in daylight and hang out in the garden. There were lots of seats in the back yard and a garden with a plethora of terra cotta pottery and sculpture and the like. My room was in a little, long building out back, facing the house itself, a white bungalow with a row of numerous French doors facing the back yard. The room would have been like paradise to a college student. It was small with white walls and a slanted ceiling with decorative yellow beams. All the fabric in the room—and there was quite a bit—carried out a blue and green color scheme. The window curtains, the fabric under the glass covers of a couple of small tables, the blankets, and a large pillow, the rug, and the chair upholstery were all in blue and green, mostly stripes. The bathroom was all white, with white porcelain tile, and had a white metal wardrobe that I didn’t use.

I woke at 3:45—that’s when I set my alarm. I did some yoga and got dressed and did what little packing I needed to do—and I rolled up and tossed out the black t-shirt in which I had been sleeping. That t-shirt was the last garment I left behind. Gee, maybe I should go ahead and change my socks for the pair Qatar Airlines supplied me with, even though this is so the last leg of my journey—only one more flight left, and so far it’s on time!

At four in the morning, I heard a bunch of peacocks calling. That was probably the only time I heard peacocks on this trip, and I didn’t seen any. It reminded me of the time I heard so many of them on the grounds of the Taj Mahal.

Was it really just this morning? We were at the Indira Gandhi International Airport at 4:50, and the driver wanted me to pay him, and I said, “Oh, I thought the guesthouse was going to add it to my bill,” and after some argument, I just went ahead and paid it, though I don’t know why the guesthouse would say via e-mail that I didn’t have to pay the driver, if I had to pay the driver. Maybe it only referred to the drive from the airport to the guesthouse.

It must have been about 5 am or slightly later when I got to the Qatar Airlines flight 233 ticket counter. The woman behind the counter said there was no record of my ticket in their system. I asked if she could put the record in the system, and she said she could but she’d need a supervisor and asked me to step back and wait till I was called. So I waited till about 7 am—the flight was scheduled for 8:05 am—and meanwhile I stood and waited and worried and bit my nails. I felt so short-shafted and didn’t even know if I’d be getting on this plane.

In short, I was stressed. Finally after the crowd died down, not to mention after I’d been standing by a trash receptacle and repeatedly thinking, “I was here before all these people,” finally I walked up to the counter and said to a different young woman than the one I previously spoke with, “I’ve been here since five, but your records don’t show me in the system.” Like, I bought the tickets back in October and have records proving it, even exact confirmed seat assignments. Since this was India, I strongly suspected that the word “supervisor” referred to someone male (India, indeed--that’s common in the U.S. too), but this young woman asked me if I had confirmed the tickets, and I said, “No, I don’t think so.” Apparently I was supposed to look up the flight to make sure it was on time and somehow confirm my tickets in the process. I thought confirming just meant you look it up online or on the phone to make sure the flight is on time, but she was able to promptly print out my next two boarding passes. Why couldn’t someone have done that two hours earlier?!

But then I had to wait in the endless immigration line. Then I had to stand in line at security—the electricity wasn’t working or something, and this took some time. Meanwhile a disembodied voice announced that my flight was boarding! I didn’t know if I’d make it on time. I got through security finally, behind a screen with a woman searching me very thoroughly and too slowly with a wand. She had me empty my pockets and was very thorough, as if she knew I was running late. I thought I’d never make it. But I did, just barely! I think I was the last one on the shuttle to the plane.

When I got to Doha, I bought a bottle of water—they only sold those small glass ones—and stood in line for security for a while before a staff member told me I had to go to the other counter and get my passport and boarding pass stamped, so I went over to the counter in question and a guy behind a counter did the stamping in question. I then went back to the line and was almost at the very end of it. I saw the signs concerning bottles of liquid and made a point of gulping down the last of my water and tossing the glass bottle into a trash receptacle; the staff member who had spoken to me earlier noticed this, and she thanked me with a smile. After I got through security, I had to hurry to get on the shuttle on time. Some people came on behind me.

Here in Washington DC, it’s chilly and wet. Not warm and dry like it was in Delhi and Doha. Not cold like in Tibet. Not wet and dark, a week later sunny and warm, like it was in Nepal.

I have just one last flight—it’s supposed to arrive in Kansas City around midnight. I hope I don’t have trouble finding Elaine, and that she doesn’t have trouble finding me. She said she’d be at the baggage claim, and she’s been to the Kansas City airport countless times.

In Kathmandu, strange men accosted me on the street all the time, but they weren’t flirting (with one possible exception, when I told a young guy that I would be going to see a dance with my travel agent, and he did a little boogie in place and said I could go dance with him). Here at the airport in Washington DC, this greybeard with a cane, who’s at least as old as my dad, I swear really was flirting with me, and I found this rather annoying. He first spotted me as he entered the shuttle where I was almost the only inhabitant; the airport is so huge that it has shuttles to take you to different terminals. He said I looked puzzled, or something like that; I had been looking at my boarding pass and feeling so tired but aware that I only had one more flight. After we got off the shuttle, the old guy with the cane asked me where I was going, and I was glad to duck into the woman’s restroom.

I’m waiting at the terminal, and ick, there are a couple of guys talking about football. Toto, I don’t think we’re in the Himalayas anymore.

Return to Delhi

At 12:40, I woke and some guy pulled the curtain away from my feet, reached across me and turned the light on over me. I was pretty freaked by this, but within seconds the light was turned off and the curtain drawn again. It took me a long time to get back to sleep. About a minute or two after that bizarre experience, I heard Rachel snapping, “I’d like to get a good night’s sleep, if you don’t mind!”

I woke in the sleeper train at four in the morning, and around 5:35 or so we arrived at the Delhi station. On the platform in Delhi this morning, Rachel told me that some guy who worked for the train pulled aside my curtain four times and stared at me, till finally she yanked it shut again. He did the same thing to her, and he even invaded Paula’s bunk, getting on the other side of the curtain. It turns out that essentially the same thing happened to at least three people. Sure, we weren’t in the exact assigned benches, but that’s not a good enough excuse. The numbers had been messed up, so that Marsha and I had the same bunk number, so I went ahead and took a different numbered bunk that was available.

Paula said, “That’s invading your space, and at our worst time, when you’re sleeping and you’re the most vulnerable.” Oh, the experience of an Indian sleeper train! Rachel and Paula had said that earlier on the trip they traveled first class and had compartments with a sliding door. I asked if it included a Western toilet, like in the film Darjeeling Limited, but no, it had an Indian toilet. Still, the separate compartment with a sliding door gave them some security. It also reminded me of the Hogwarts Express. I told them that on the pilgrimage last year, we traveled second class just like on this trip to and from Dharamsala.

Be prepared for anything when you ride the sleeper train--Paula had warned us on the taxi ride. I had earlier mentioned to Rachel that last year riding the sleeper train wasn’t so bad, except for when first thing in the morning a guy was staring at me, so I pulled my curtains shut. And then there was the old guy who sat and talked with us, no doubt because he was curious and fascinated by a bunch of Western females. But he seemed harmless.

Our arrival in Delhi at a bit after five thirty in the morning may as well have been five thirty in the evening, considering how many people were on the station platform. Inge told me, “If you look behind you to your right, you’ll see a fellow getting ready for business.” I looked and a guy had vast numbers of shiny silver keys hanging from his white shirt, and over one arm hung large silver chains. Inge explained that he sold locks for suitcases, and that she’d read about this but never saw it before. It sure looked odd. I have very tiny padlocks for suitcases, and they’re very useful if you’re staying in a hostel dorm room with several other people.

The porters carried away our luggage. We got to the littered, disgusting parking lot while it was still dark out (so you’d think I wouldn’t have seen the litter so well), and for the last time we climbed aboard a tour bus. It reminded me of the pilgrimage, during which a tour bus was sort of our mobile home. Jagdish and one of the Davids, as I saw looking out the bus window, got into a motor rickshaw and went separately, but for now everyone else—except the ones with whom we parted in Dharamsala—was on the bus.

We passed the Red Fort, which around six in the morning was a dark silhouette backed by a dark blue sky. Soon Shantum took the microphone and gave us a bit of a tour/history about Delhi, by which time, as he explained, we were in New Delhi, unlike the Old Delhi location of the train station and the Red Fort. Shantum told us that Delhi has been the capital of India five times, and the first time was in ancient days when it was Indraprata, the setting for The Mahabharata. The emperor Asoka also made it the capital, and Sha Jahan five hundred years ago moved the capital from Agra to Delhi, and of course New Delhi was the capital during the British Raj, and it continues to be now after independence.

Ashok Hotel
As the bus pulled into the driveway of what looked like a majorly fancy hotel, Shantum said, “Friends, we have arrived.” We were at the Ashok Hotel for breakfast and for parting. When we stopped in front of the regal columned entrance to the fancy Ashok Hotel, named after the Buddhist emperor, I not only noticed the water fountain and the fancy burgundy uniforms that the doormen wore, a concoction involving gold-trimmed Nehru jackets and burgundy turbans topped with a sort of fontage—that is, a fan-shaped piece of silky fabric. But what truly caught my eye was a skinny little grey striped cat. It was the first cat I saw on this trip! On the bus I exclaimed, “There’s a kitty!” as I saw the cat move around the fountain and disappear behind a column to the left. After we got off the bus, I snooped around at the potted plants where I thought the cat went, but it was nowhere.

We left our suitcases at the front, and Shantum said they’d be guarded. Then we entered the posh hotel, where the enormous front lobby was decorated, among other things, with bodhi leaves in yellow, red, brown and orange painted on parts of the walls. The lobby split off to the right, forming a sort of very large hallway with cushy chairs and couches, and beyond that were the restrooms and phones. We went straight, eyed Hindu sculptures, and went down a corridor, past a shop with shawls and other pretty things in a glass display case, to have breakfast in a corner of the restaurant.

I sat with Arturo and Jeff for the first time. They were both Kashmir Cottage people and I’d scarcely spoken with Jeff before, but at least I’d had a good talk with Arturo once in a taxi. I’ve had quite a few good talks in taxis on this trip. Coming to think of this, I guess we spent a lot of time in taxis. Jeff is a tall and skinny older guy from Rhode Island. Everyone is either from the east or the west, and I live in the middle—or rather dwell in the middle. But not for long!

Anyway, we talked about our meditation practice. I said that I practiced vipassana or Theravada. According to Jeff, samatha is calm abiding meditation, which goes along with vipassana; I’m so concentrated on metta that I don’t remember reading about samatha, but I probably have. Vipassana is mindfulness meditation, samatha calm abiding, and metta is loving-kindness. Because of my situation with poisonous relatives, I have focused almost exclusively on metta for the past four years.

We had a choice of continental breakfast or a breakfast that involved eggs, and I chose the continental breakfast: fruit juice, papaya, and your choice of different breads, including sweet rolls, muffins and croissants, besides sliced bread of various colors. I returned to the table with Jeff and Arturo, and we talked about sanghas and where we’re going and all that. I told Jeff about the rather disappointing sangha in Lawrence, Kansas. I particularly talked about how the group turned me off with their anti-vegetarian conversations. He used a good word choice when he described them as “too opinionated.” Returning from a trip to the buffet, he also added that solitary practice is better than getting with groups like that, because “they’ll want you to do things their way.” Good point! His saying this helped me to no longer feel ashamed of the aversion I’ve developed toward that sangha, or perhaps that’s too strong a word—certainly I’ve experienced very strong disappointment in that sangha. No, aversion isn’t too strong a word.

After we all got back to the tables in the far corner of the restaurant, Shantum spoke to the group about a few things, namely about how we would be parting and the gifts that he had for us, wrapped in newspaper like last year. He mentioned that after parting with the sangha he’ll be checking his e-mails for about five hours.

It’s hard to believe Shantum would devote that length of time to reading e-mails! I doubt he read any of the ones John and I sent the sangha last year, but I shouldn’t assume that just because he never replied.

Meanwhile, Shantum performed the moli ceremony with each of us who was at the hotel. He did this at the end of last year’s pilgrimage, but this time we were in a restaurant with lots of background noise. I think I was the last one, since I had slipped off to the restroom. Before Shantum approached me, I pulled up my sleeve slightly to display last year’s string around my wrist, and Marsha, among others, asked me about it. The string, which had started out as bright red and yellow wrapped around three times, was now one pathetic, ragged pale pink string. Shantum walked up to me with a smile and explained to Marsha “Yes, that’s from me last year,” referring to the faded old string. She was astonished that it had lasted so long.

Shantum pressed his palms together, and I pressed my palms together. He unrolled a long red and yellow string and as he wrapped it around my left wrist said, “I’ll tie them together,” and wrapped the new string around the old ragged one. Wrapping the moli around my wrist, Shantum said, referring to the number of times it was wrapped, “One for the Buddha, one for the dharma, one for the sangha, and one for the journey.” I smiled. I didn’t feel blissed out as during the pilgrimage. We shared a mindful hug like last year, although it wasn’t really like last year. I felt a certain melancholy, in contrast with the transcendent happiness I felt during this ceremony last year.

I wasn’t feeling terribly emotional through all this; I had a sense that I should mention the book again, but time was getting short and it was noisy with so many people around. I meant to say that I’ve been thinking maybe my pilgrimage memoir will stand by itself without including Shantum's storytelling, but I’ll nonetheless have to at least summarize why such-and-such place was important to the Buddha. I’ll just have to see how it works, copy and paste the manuscript into a new document and give it a try. Really, I didn’t mean to be a nuisance. If I had broached the subject—and I’m terrible at broaching subjects—I probably would have burst into tears right there in front of everyone, so it’s just as well that I didn’t mention my book.

The sangha had a big farewell. I don’t feel like I spent enough time with this sangha, but at least we’re sharing e-mail addresses. I exchanged hugs with Sheila, Samaya, and Inge. I also, in addition to the hugs, had some conversation about safety in Kathmandu. Marsha said that I might, as I had suggested earlier, be better off just staying in my hotel room. Samaya told me about a friend of hers who owns a sweater shop in Kathmandu, in the Thamel district, and that if I meet her I should mention Samaya. She said that if there are bombs or anything, I should be willing to have a change of plans for my safety. Also, Marsha gave me a hug and said, “We’ll all be praying for you.”

Actually, I haven’t felt so nervous about it since talking with Gary again—he had earlier been describing a protest against the government and said I should be OK and that they love tourists—even the Maoists love tourists. I had asked him specifically, “Will I be safe walking around Kathmandu with a camera?” He replied in the affirmative. We left the restaurant, walked down the hall and into the lobby, and went out the grand front doors.

We went down the front steps, Shantum ordered taxis, and we organized our luggage. The whole group formed a circle and did some touchy-feely singing before we split up. I didn’t put much effort into trying to sing with the group. Marsha had told me that she, David, and I could take the same taxi, because they were going to the Radisson Hotel, which is close to the airport. We got the third taxi that stopped in front.

David, Marsha, and I rode a taxi to the Indira Gandhi International Airport. David sat in the front seat and Marsha and me in the back seat. Marsha and David were going to stay at the Radisson near the airport, and I told Marsha about the unbelievably posh Radisson we stayed at in Varanasi last year. I made the comment that it’s bizarre to stay at such a shamelessly fancy hotel when the streets are full of beggars and there is so much poverty and squalor. Marsha explained that this is what people in Asia assume Westerners expect in hotels: they think we expect hotels to be extremely fancy. I guess it’s their perception of Westerners—I guess they think we’re very spoiled and wealthy. I’m glad I requested budget hotels in Tibet; I’m curious to see what they will be like, and I’m imagining cigarette burns in the carpet, and a squatting toilet and bucket bath in my room. But that’s OK; it’ll be part of the Tibet experience.

On the street, a book wallah had a handful of guess what, books, and I jotted down one of the titles: The Argumentative Indian. It sounded interesting because it was an anthology of essays by Indian authors, but now I don’t remember anything more about it. It seems likely that it would include Arundhati Roy.

In the taxi, Marsha point out that Shantum did this rather secular tour (that most of the group was in) and will continue doing secular tours because he has kids now and has to support them; he wants to put them through private school.

I said my farewells to Marsha and David when I got off at the airport. They were going on to the Radisson, very close the airport, but guys who came to take my suitcase also wanted to take theirs. We had to explain a few things. I stood in line and an employee, a slender young man with an official name tag hanging from his neck, asked me which gate I needed, and so I told him, and he led me to a different door, where I proceeded to stand in line. I thanked him profusely and smiled, and both as we were walking toward the proper entrance and after we got there to the line, he said, “250 rupees.” I seriously thought I was supposed to pay him 250 rupees, but when he took the money, he sneakily and quickly slipped it into a pocket. The cheating bastard! It was only about five dollars, but that's not the point. I was only on my own for a minute, and I fell for a scam artist! Jagdish would be so disappointed in me; he had told me last year that there are beggars who have jobs and therefore have no need to beg, and here I was fooled by one of them. I was glad when the jerk walked away.

I stood in line a lot, before I got into the building and after I got into the building and went through a security fiasco. Since Jet Airways only allows for one carry-on rather than the usual two, I wanted both my suitcase and my backpack to be checked. Both pieces of luggage when through security, but for whatever reason an employee only put the “Security” tape around my suitcase and not my backpack. After I approached another employee, I had to go back to security, put my backpack through again, and wait for someone to put tape around it, before I checked in my luggage. To think the Indira Gandhi International Airport had seemed so efficient and organized the first time I arrived in it!

While standing around in line and whatever else I was doing at the airport, I noticed tall white panels marking airport construction display the rather amusing lines: “We are upgrading to serve you. Inconvenience is regretted.” An American airport would have had the words “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

Dharamsala, by the way, is a fascinating and wacky town. It probably has many odd characters—it’s the sort of town that would. I saw at the Dalai Lama’s temple a tall and skinny white boy who had somewhat spiky hair that was too long for a monk’s, besides a punk look; and yet he was dressed just like a Tibetan monk, whether or not he was one. His upper arms were tattooed with Buddhist symbols such as the endless knot.

Oh, yeah, at some point I ran into the Kashmiri shopkeeper on the street, and we recognized each other, though he wasn’t wearing his hat. That was possibly when we gathered in the square and Jagdish stopped at the little shop below Mc’llo’s and got himself a luscious chocolate birthday cake and some other snacks for all of us, which we ate high up in the Himalayas.

I’m in the hotel in Kathmandu. It’s shortly after 4:30 am. But I’ve been in bed for hours—I have a virus (as in hacking up yellow phlegm), I woke in a sleeper car at about 4 am, I have a slight touch of altitude sickness that I didn’t even notice till the middle of the night, and I’m afraid I’m a bit in shock—here in Nepal on my own, where people apparently don’t speak English as clearly as they do in India. But maybe I’m generalizing. Maybe I’m just so used to how Jagdish and a few other people speak English; Shantum and the Raj speak it with a British accent, and the Rani almost had a British accent. I’m sure it doesn’t help that my ears are congested.

Last Day in Dharamsala

Pictures at Pathnkot Train Station

I’m sitting outdoors, it’s morning, and I’m listening to birds. One makes a soft peep-peep, and several make a series of chirps, not in unison. Periodically I hear a bird that calls continuously and sounds a lot like an alarm clock; I’ve heard it frequently throughout this stay at the guesthouse. Last night, weirdly, the roof of my room was assaulted by the bizarre sounds of either birds or monkeys (or some sort of creature, possibly mythological) scrambling around and either chirping or emitting high-pitched chatters. It sounded like the creatures might fall through the roof—they scrambled so frantically. Oh, I just heard a crow.

At Chonor House one day, Gary identified a gliding bird as a vulture and others as hawks, and since then I’ve noticed hawks with white undersides. Here I am surrounded by trees, and it just occurred to me that I haven’t seen any squirrels since we were in Delhi. Perhaps they’re not into higher altitudes.

I gave my stack of postcards to the Maharaja this morning and said, “Could you please mail these postcards? I haven’t found a post office.” I refrained from mentioning that I didn’t try very hard to find one. There were much more interesting sights to distract me.

Enid asked the Raj about one of the photos in the sunroom, and he explained that was one of his sons and explained several portraits over several generations. The sunroom contained modern color photos and old black and white photos. The Raj showed us an elaborate picture that’s the family tree dating to before Alexander the Great, and over one window was a very old yellow parchment that he explained is the original family tree. It was framed and behind glass. The Raj’s dad had nine wives and fifty-two kids. No wonder India has a population of over a billion. The current Raj and Rani have one son; one of the pictures was of his wedding, and he wore a spiffy pink silk tunic and turban. In the midst of the conversation, the Raj led us into Kathy and Inge’s suite and opened a far door into a charming room with a large bookcase and wall panels hand-painted with a white background and a colorful tree in the foreground.

Before this, Kathy and Inge showed me their beautiful suite, with a fireplace much like ours and an elaborately carved dark wooden bed and chairs. There’s a sitting room in front complete with an alcohol-filled sideboard in a corner and an empty leopard on the opposite wall. I realize it was killed a long time ago, but I’m glad my room contains no dead animals. Past the sitting room is the big bedroom, and beyond that a little whitewashed anti-room and a larger but similar bathroom to ours, and connected to the bathroom is a separate toilet room—rather convenient when you’ve got a roommate.

2
At approximately ten this morning, we got together in the courtyard, and Jagdish sang and told us the story of the Ramayana. Mimi pointed out that the story is rather patriarchal and that Rama was very unkind to Sati, testing her instead of showing that he was glad to have her back. As I mentioned in my pilgrimage memoir, Rama needs a dog, not a wife.

Gill said, “I think Kashmir Cottage is having trouble getting it together. We ought to share our insight poems and run away.”
“Gill, you are a mischievous girl,” Manny said. It was all the more funny, because she’s about twenty years older than he. Shortly after she said that, the Kashmir Cottage people have arrived.

Shantum said, “The sixth element is consciousness. All the elements are related.” Birds singing has to do with both earth and air. “We are all one with the elements.” He led us through an element meditation in the style of Thich Nhat Hanh. Afterwards, we shared insight poems, and I went ahead and read aloud my poem “Mindful Trek” even though I figured few people could hear my horrible voice. We had another but briefer discussion on generosity and such.
“When you feel like buying something, put the money in your pocket and give it to someone,” Shantum said.

We had some practical discussion. Address lists from Kashmir Cottage and from Cloud’s End will be e-mailed to the sangha; Marsha has one list, and Inge has the other. Kathy’s going to try making a website to share photos from the trip. I am glad to hear that; she took, among other things, group photos.

Shantum read from the Happiness Sutra. Perhaps if I had concentrated I would have learned something from it, but my mind was more undisciplined than usual.

After we shared our insight poems, Etiel had to go to a travel agency to confirm the next segment of her trip, so Shantum did the moli ceremony with her before she left. This ceremony is one that Shantum did with each of the pilgrims last year: he silently and mindfully ties a hand-dyed red and yellow string around your left wrist, a thicker string than the Three Jewels strings that monks tie around your right wrist. That was the last we will see of Etiel, because she’s staying behind in Dharamsala while most of us go to Delhi. Shantum then did the moli ceremony with Lynn and John, who also left.

At some point, Enid said to me, “You have got to get out of Kansas!” I agreed enthusiastically, with what was probably a stupid laugh. The trip has certainly reminded me of the urgency of my moving far away from Kansas, to the west coast, though I think I said the same about the last trip. However, on last year’s pilgrimage, I found considerably more acceptance and a sense of belonging, a sense that got me fantasizing about living in India. On this trip, I’m getting a message that India is not where I need to be to seek healing after all; even dogs have been unfriendly. Anyway, I’m busy writing journals instead of getting ready to leave. I can do both, really.

At some point in Dharamsala, Lynn asked me, “What do people in Kansas think of you?”
I laughed heartily and said, “They think I’m a freak!” I may have expanded on that slightly.

At some point Enid said, “You should wear that hat all the time,” referring to my new hand-embroidered burgundy Kashmiri fez.

“I just might!” I said.

“You should even wear it when you go to bed, and in the shower.”

She suggested that I should wear weird clothing in Kansas all the time, and I said, “I do!” and laughed. “People stare,” I added.

The sangha enjoyed a nice Indian lunch at Cloud’s End. It was everyone who was left, including people who stayed at Kashmir Cottage.

We climbed into five white cabs, as we had before, and experienced a queasy-dizzy drive from Dharamsala. We circled around and around down the mountain, as we had up the mountain, and I felt dizzy. This time I uncharacteristically refrained from keeping quiet about it, and I said to Rachel, who sat beside me, “I’m feeling dizzy and nauseous.” Rachel thought I meant that to the extreme of needing to stop the car so I could vomit on the side of the road, but no, I said that wouldn’t be necessary.

We stopped at Mao Fort, the same derelict hotel/restaurant we had stopped at on the way to Dharamsala. We had tea and enjoyed the view again.

One of the Davids offered me Chinese herbal cold medicine that he had gotten earlier on the tip and didn’t need any more. Given the way I was coughing at that point, it was obvious that I wasn’t feeling well. I eagerly said, “Sure! That’d be great!” and he went out to the taxis to rummage in his suitcase for the drugs. I felt flattered that he was going through all that trouble—again, a mother! While we sat in the circle, he came over to me and gave me two biggish pill bottles one labeled “Cold Away” and the other something beginning with a B. I thanked him profusely. It seems like just about everyone I traveled with was being my mother. Stacy noticed the drugs, and since she and Paula have more or less the same thing I have (like, the pollution in Delhi probably has something to do with it). Anyway, Stacy gave me advice on the drugs—she’s a professional homeopathic healer and in fact gave a couple of us fizzy pink vitamin C supplements for breakfast yesterday morning, our last breakfast at Cloud’s End.

Everyone sat in a circle at Mao Fort and sipping tea, the two sisters Pat and Gill (with a few comments from Shantum and Richard) paged through their journals and summarized the trip, starting at the very beginning, about a month before I joined the sangha. As Sheila later described it, “It was like a British sitcom.” At least one other person said this was boring for people who weren’t on that part of the trip, and they pointed out that we should have been doing that in the courtyard the other day instead of waiting till we were at Mao Fort.

I haven’t written about Boom Boom yet. Lynn and John went to the café, Boom Boom the Fifth, on a Monday night. Normally Boom Boom doesn’t do her cabaret show on Mondays, but she did it special just for them (I think because it was John’s birthday). Lyn said, “It was like we were in an independent film.” Boom Boom played a Bessie Smith record and sang with it---I get the impression she’s a very good singer. She’s a bit overweight and wears excessive make-up, with lipstick that goes high above her lips and forms a pair of sharp points, under her nose. Lyn said that Boom Boom had a relationship with the Raj that she can’t explain because that would be unmindful speech. So, like, presumably “Boom Boom is or has been the Raj’s mistress,” as someone put it. I wouldn’t have used that archaic term. Shantum later smilingly said that Boom Boom likes to gossip, to spread gossip, not just be the subject of gossip. Oh, yes, also, she’s Australian.

The Raj himself is a bit odd. I mentioned that he wore pretty clothes. In addition to the regional hat, he wore a hand quilted, or a dark red or navy blue velvet robe in the same wrap-around, vaguely Tibetan-looking style. I never thought I’d want to pet a Maharaja. He is pale for an Indian and has deep-set eyes and white hair, what’s left of it—Enid said she’s never seen anyone who looks like the Raj and said, “He’s Indian, isn’t he?” Paula or someone pointed out that he’s from Northern hill tribes, and I remembered the family tree on his wall in the sun room, a family tree that goes back to before Alexander the Great.

Oh, yes, the Rani is the one who comes from the Maharaja family, and their marriage was arranged—they met on the day they married. I’m glad I didn’t know this while I was staying at Cloud’s End, but on the ride away Paula said that the Raj said men should be masters and women should be submissive. As Paula pointed out, he’s married to a woman who used to be the M.P. (Member of Parliament) for the region. The Rani, who sorted out and returned laundry to sangha members, said, “I used to work for the government, and now I sort underwear. This is not in my league.”

Anyway, on the bright side, Shantum and the Raj were never close friends. He’s actually Vikram Seth’s age rather than Shantum’s, so they would have been five years apart. The oddest thing about the Raj is the way he talks: he scarcely moves his lips, like a ventriloquist, and it’s therefore hard to understand him, even though he speaks English with a British accent. James did a funny impersonation of this after we got into the taxi to leave Cloud’s End for the Pathankot station.

On the way to the train station, we rode through the filthy dingy hazy downtown of Pathankot. The air is grey with haze, the traffic is mostly rickshaws, motorcycles, and trucks, and right up next to each other are countless open-front little shops. Litter lies or flutters on the ground before these shops. The occasional horse cart clops and rattles past. The buildings and everything around is overwhelmingly grey, with some exceptions, in particular the bright salwar-kamiz women wear; I hope they’re wearing washable cotton.

We arrived at the Pathankot train station, where the first thing I recognized was the cartoonish grey elephant sculpture in a blue jacket and holding a lantern. Numerous rickshaws and a very dirty man hovered around, watching us; he wore a mustard yellow shawl and matching turban.
At the station, we stood around and saw four red-clad Tibetan monks waiting on a bench; a guy with a metal cart on which he was making roti; and another guy with a fruit cart piled mostly with oranges and bananas. The haze was still really obvious. When the train came along, the engine billowed black smoke and chugged by, rapidly followed by the third class cabins in which people appeared to be tightly packed and the open windows had horizontal bars. As the cabins went past close to us, I felt dizzy and had to turn away, but my curiosity compelled me to turn back to the train. The next windows were long rectangles, with glass, and next was sleeper class, which we would ride again.

On the platform, Shantum had gone over a list assigning us numbers, and both Marsha and I had the number 37, so I ended up taking number 17 instead and letting her have 37, which makes sense especially since that would put her with her friend David from Florida. (She lives in the San Francisco area and he lives in Florida, but they keep in touch regularly anyway.)

We got on the train and I noticed that my bunk had a bundle of used sheets on it, so I scooped them up and said, “It looks like I get the dirty laundry!” and put the sheets on the bunk above me. James was coming up behind me and laughed at my comment as he moved by, but a skinny guy who worked on the train wasn’t so amused and as soon as I put the laundry bundle on the upper bunk, he hastily took it down.

Jagdish handed out carry-out diner, a basic Indian meal, from Mao Fort. It consisted of a cardboard box containing two plastic bags, one full of a cauliflower curry and the other a paneer; an aluminum container full of rice; and two pieces of chapatti. I sat cross-legged on my bunk—again, an outer one with my own curtain and window—with my backpack and handbag and jacket and velvet shirt spread out on the bench. Jagdish also passed out bananas and oranges, although the once hot food was sufficiently filling. I had expected cucumber sandwiches, eggs, and fruit like the picnic lunches on the pilgrimage last year, so this was a pleasant surprise…except I really shouldn’t be eating right before going to bed, which is essentially what I did.

I took the Chinese drugs with dinner and promptly went to bed afterward.

After eating on the train, and having a chat with Stacy and Manny, who were across the aisle from me, and Paula was visiting them. (What a relief—at first I was afraid that strange men would be across the aisle from me, after Paula told me a disturbing true story, on one of these trains, in which there were a couple of English women in their twenties, and some creep was not only staring at them but also jacking off). Anyway, I made my bed, putting my passport bag (which contains a bunch of money) under my pillow, and on top of that my handbag, then my coat, then my pillow, and at my feet were my shoes and backpack. As I drew the curtain, I heard, “Good-night, Susan!” and replied, “Good night!” as I lay down with my face toward the curtain, like a reclining Buddha.

Insight Poems

Although this trip to India was not nearly as inspiring as last year's pilgrimage, I still managed to write more than one insight poem in Dharamsala.

Mindful Trek

Mindful steps over rough terrain
the gurgle and splatter of a natural spring
rocks glistening in the sun
sparrows singing and crows cawing
yak footprints and rhododendron trees
the scent of pine and cedar
hawks soaring in blueness
with a backdrop of tree-covered and
snow-capped triangular mountains
are more spiritual to me
than any temple or ceremony.


Nurturing

I have heard that everyone
has previously been my mother.
While I cannot see myself as anyone’s mother,
it is clear that everyone in this sangha
has been my mother previously
and briefly in this lifetime.

Bodhicitta, Gratitude, and Generosity

This morning I had a good therapeutic conversation with Lynn and Mimi at breakfast. It started with Mimi talking about her family, and the topic led to how distressed I have been lately because of my verbally abusive relatives.

I told Mimi and Lynn about my mother and her siblings, and how I’m only just starting to confront the situation and try healing from my childhood, and that only in the past few years I’ve stopped being in denial about what my relatives are really like. I told them that my most poisonous relatives were victims of incest when they were children, and I described the way they ganged up on my nephew as if they were a gang of playground bullies, and I said, “Seeing them treat him that way, I realized that they have treated me like that hundreds of times. And I figured out that they pick the youngest person, because they believe that the younger you are, the more powerless and the more abused you deserve to be.”

Mimi was outraged and said, “You feel so helpless when you witness things like that.” That’s very true, and I neglected to mention that I had just done five or six weeks of intensive metta meditation before that family reunion and was therefore remarkably equanimous. We talked about healing, and I mentioned the book by Alice Miller called The Drama of the Gifted Child, which I read shortly before this trip, and Lynn is familiar with the book. They pointed out that the healing process takes a long time. Mimi said, “If even just one person begins to heal, it is healing the previous generation and the next generation.” That was very encouraging, although she also said that it’s highly unusual, very hard, to recover from child abuse.

I said, “Who knows how many generations this has been going on.”

After breakfast, we gathered into the courtyard of Cloud’s End, where some plastic patio chairs had been set up in a sort of circle. I spread out my straw mat in front of some chairs and settled down on it, taking off my boots and sitting cross-legged.

The Mindfulness Trainings Ceremony was the reason we gathered in the courtyard; it had been such an exciting and joyful experience in the Jetta Grove last year, and yet this time it seemed to me like a meaningless ceremony. During the ceremony, I was in the center back and going through the motions but lacked last year's enthusiasm. The ceremony last year had been such a great inspiration.

Stacy and I had already done the Mindfulness Training Ceremony previously, so Shantum didn’t call us up and give us the certificate, which seemed a little anti-climactic but to be expected. However, he later asked me what my dharma name was, and I told him “Fearlessness of the Source.” He seemed in a cheerful mood when he asked and even smiled at me, but I didn’t feel like smiling. I really do have to wonder if it’s possible for me to coexist with humans at all, since everywhere I turn I get rejection. A little later he gave me a fresh Mindfulness Training Certificate, and I remembered that the one from last year is slightly dog-eared.

Shortly after the ceremony, Shantum gave an instruction in mindful hugging and demonstrated with Inge, and there was hugging going around in the courtyard. I went back to writing depressive thoughts or whatever in my journal, and it looked like everyone would ignore me. But Samaya approached me and I grudgingly agreed to a mindful hug. Mimi also gave me a mindful hug and afterwards whispered to me, “You’re beautiful.”

The sangha settled back down in chairs and on the lawn to have a talk. We discussed the topics of generosity and privilege, since generosity was such a huge topic in the Dalai Lama’s teachings and so significant to issues we encountered outside the teachings, such as the decision to donate to the Tibetan Children’s Village and the Tibetan Nuns Project.

One of the things for which we should be grateful, and that came up in conversation, is the gift of nonfear: fear, fear of death, how the person who died an hour ago is gone and a new person is there. This includes your work, karma, with mind and body stream not dying but continuing beyond physical death. One can experience nonfear in facing the basic fear of death.

Mimi gave a long list of examples of privileges: she was able to get education and go through college, she has the privilege of being a woman in America, to live in a country where you can be a feminist and not be persecuted for it (which just goes to show that the Midwest isn’t part of America!), having plenty to eat, money, the ability to travel and go from place to place and do many things, being able to go, the privilege to have silence and solitude. Shantum or someone said that you can make a gratitude list comparing yourself to the rest of the world. Someone else pointed out that white skin is a privilege in racist society. That proves that privileges are not a deserved sort of thing. Someone mentioned the privilege of travel and of being here. Gary said, “The privilege of being a human being.”

On the subject of generosity: give what you can. I am not open to hugs and to showing emotion, which could be seen as a sort of generosity. But I donate money and food and things, regardless of how uncomfortable (and/or incompetent) I am about displaying emotion or showing that I have a heart. You should give of yourself; it doesn’t have to be a big thing.

The discussion also covered the subject of generosity with money: supporting causes, supporting people, supporting yourself. I do all of those things, certainly, for all my seeming worthlessness. As Gary pointed out, “Some people have huge amounts of money but are poor in their outlook;” plenty of very wealthy people don’t give to the poor. “The world has abundance. Generosity for me is about connecting with the abundance of life.”

“You can’t keep it unless you give it away,” David said.

Etiel said, “The Jewish tradition of generosity. You’re obliged to pick up and carry someone who’s ill.”

“The generosity of affection is liberating,” someone said. Great, I don’t experience much of that, and I have to accept the fact that I never will…except from cats. I can’t forget cats, but for most people they’re not enough—you need affection from your own species.

Mimi or someone also spoke of giving money and saying, “It’s not ours to keep.” We don’t own anything.

Shantum said, “Current governments have invented property to keep track of what’s there, separation into categories.”

Sheila said, “Generosity to yourself—giving yourself time, space, and quiet to help others do the same.”

In the midst of this conversation, I said nothing but wrote in my journal: “Is there such a huge difference between the street beggars in India and my begging for travel money from my dad?” At least street beggars are poor and therefore have better reason to beg. I on the other hand have begged for money from my dad for the luxury of traveling to the other side of the world. And of course it’s easier to beg from your dad (at least, if you have a dad like mine) than to beg from a stranger whose reaction could be just about anything.

We also experience generosity of the sangha with each other, often in the form of small gestures. That addition to the conversation reminded me how so many people in this sangha have, in effect, been my mother. It has reminded me of the Tibetan saying that everyone has been your mother in a previous life.

The topic of generosity next led to the support of certain organizations, in particular some of the places that the sangha visited. The group that has been traveling for over a month went to a girls’ orphanage. Of course the Tibet Nun’s Project and the Tibetan Children’s Village came up, and I definitely want to donate to the latter and possibly also the former. Mimi earlier had discussed this with me and had asked why I wanted to support the nuns but not the Children’s Village, and I had said, “Well, maybe I’ll support the Children’s Village also, but I knew about the Nuns Project beforehand and have read a lot about Buddhist nuns and how unappreciated they generally are, so it’s a topic close to my heart.” It might have been more to the point that women’s issues are invariably close to my heart. Of course, I think of peace and revolution--and therefore education that emphasizes peace, nonviolence, and good communication skills—to be close to my heart and relevant to feminism, and I have been bringing it up in petitions, surveys, and letters, even though I’m certainly not a teacher.

Shantum mentioned his volunteering with the U. N. for a dollar a year to run a whole program on his own. Self development—the U.N. didn’t get it and, didn’t appreciate his attempts to reform the system. He had mentioned this in the taxi on the way from the Norbulingka Institute, and I thought it was no wonder he had concluded that the U.N. is useless. It seems to me that although he’s been so much more distant and brusque on this trip, he has opened up about his own past more than he had on the pilgrimage. His employment is a part of practice, it’s hard to give, especially to himself.

Mimi said, “To quote Helen Boyle, ‘I love my money because I can give it away.’”

2
For lunch, we ate on the balcony at Chonor House. I picked up a Tibetan Independence Movement brochure that included a post card inside, to send to the Chinese government. I would have to hide it in my suitcase before going to Tibet and refrain from mailing it until I got back the States, because I didn’t want to get in trouble with the Chinese government until after I left Tibet. It wouldn’t do to be kicked out of the country. I hoped no authorities would notice that I have a panda bear with a Tibetan flag on its back; I hadn’t thought of that when I purchased the toy for my nephew.

Before I sat down, we saw a large, beautiful black-faced monkey in a tree by the balcony. Of course, I had to get as close as possible and watch the monkey, or specifically the Hanuman langur, climbing and swinging, before I sat down and got out my radio.

We listened to the English version of the Dalai Lama’s teachings on our radios all through lunch; I remembered to bring the radio this time. I felt nonetheless crappy and kept blowing my nose, and Stacy passed me a packet of a vitamin C and honey supplement in pink powder form; you put it in a glass (or teacup) and it fizzles and bubbles. Very interesting. It didn’t taste gross, and I drank it down quickly.

The Dalai Lama talked about generosity and altruism, different forms of enlightenment, and different forms of bodhicitta. He spoke at some length of bodhicitta, the “ultimate altruism to benefit all sentient beings.” When your everyday state is like your meditative state, you’ve reached Buddhahood. The Dalai Lama spoke about reciting a bodhicitta mantra on a daily basis; I think that’s a lot like practicing metta (lovingkindness) meditation.

I gathered up my stuff and headed for the temple shortly after two pm. I wanted to get a look at the Dalai Lama before his dishy translator’s four o’clock teaching. I got through security and moved up the steps, where Westerners stood with radios. I stood behind someone and arranged my radio. The reception, I discovered, was much better at Chonor House, and it was rather less comfy to stand there with my bag hanging from my neck rather than sit on a mat, but I didn’t mind. I did get a look at the Dalai Lama as he went by, and again I smiled back at him glowingly.

I then hung out at the temple and people watched until the translator’s teachings. It is definitely quite a place to people watch, with all the Tibetan pilgrims with different regional dress. I remembered that there wasn’t a lot of point in leaving the temple, even though I had a full hour. I first waited for the crowd to die down while I stood in the courtyard and people-watched. As there came to be more elbow room, I slowly made my way up the path to the temple, and next I stood at the front of the balcony and looked down at people. I saw an old lama blessing people by taking a large rolled-up thangka and gently touching them on the foreheads. When it was close to four o’clock, I turned and headed up to the Kalachakra Hall for the final time.

The translator talked about bodhicitta also, and he pointed out that if you want to be famous, you should be famous for being altruistic, for being like, say, Gandhi. If you try to be famous like Michael Jackson, your voice and your dance moves aren’t going to last forever.

With Mimi, Arturo, and David, I sneaked out of the hall early, so that we could pile into a taxi and get to Cloud’s End in time for the talk with the Dalai Lama’s brother. I’ve been feeling terrible—it’s a cold, I’m sure, not just allergies. By the time we gathered into the little sitting room at 5:30—actually, some of us got there earlier—I was exhausted and yawning. During the discussion, I couldn’t help yawning widely, even though I felt terribly guilty about doing it and was genuinely enjoying listening to Tenzin. Hopefully he could tell I was sick; I blew my nose enough.

We gathered into the living room at Cloud’s End to have a talk with the Dalai Lama’s brother, Tenzin Choegyal. He was also identified as a reincarnate lama at an early age, but he ditched the post because it didn’t suit him. I was one of the first people in the room, and I plopped down on the floor; I always sit on the floor because it seems to me appropriate for the youngest person in the group, and because I’m more comfortable sitting that way than sitting up in a chair and not knowing what to do with my legs. Shantum walked up to the dais in the bay window and pulled up a seat for our Tibetan visitor, but Tenzin Choegyal mischievously plopped down in the center of the couch next to David and grinned.

I looked up at Tenzin Choegyal from about three feet away and couldn’t help but stare: the Dalai Lama was in disguise! I thought he looked remarkably like the Dalai Lama, except he had short hair instead of a shaved head, and instead of red robes he wore Western pants, an oxford shirt, and a brown jacket with the message “SF San Francisco” on the upper left side. He wore squarish glasses like the Dalai Lama’s. Shantum had said something to the effect that Tenzin Choegyal isn’t very sociable and spends a lot of time in retreat, so I had visualized a crazy, stern, cave-dwelling yogi with long braided hair and traditional Tibetan clothing. In the course of the discussion, we learned that he’s sixty-one years old. He does look a lot younger than his brother and still has totally black hair.

Shantum introduced Tenzin by saying, “This is my teacher. Well, a friend.”

Tenzin said, “A friend who led him astray!” He even sounds a lot like the Dalai Lama! Well, his voice isn’t that deep, and his English is more fluent. Members of the sangha asked him questions, and he happily, eagerly, answered.

“Some people think Buddhism is pessimistic, because it talks about suffering. All spiritual traditions talk about suffering. If you mention spiritual traditions, people automatically think of fighting,” he said. He mentioned that religions become political parties, for there is tremendous division instead of uniting, and this is a big challenge we have at this age. It’s a great time to make amends, to transform. He condemned political parties as being about selfishness and imposing one’s view on others, including through money. It’s no wonder I now refuse to even try associating myself, limiting myself, to a political party.

Shantum introduced Paula as the rabbi who took the Three Refuges, and Tenzin said, “Should we throw a party?”

Tenzin Choegyal is so not a fan of blind faith, which is something people have if they don’t examine or analyze things; I think that is connected to fundamentalism.

“May I ask a question?” Richard asked.
“No, you may not,” Tenzin joked.
“Is the empowerment ceremony appropriate for householders, or just monastics?” (The Dalai Lama did the empowerment ceremony for at least a couple days, in addition to teachings.)
“The empowerment ceremony is OK for householders.”

“I’d like to ask you a personal question,” Etiel said.
“No personal questions!” Tenzin joked with a grin.
“Why didn’t you remain a monk?”
“I wasn’t up to the task. It was like wearing the skin of a tiger.”

Tenzin Choegyal told us a lot about himself, about his life, and about how different his views are from his brother’s. While he’s a big fan of nonviolence and dialogue, he’s not so serious a fan of the monastic system, which has a lot of power. While he does believe in reincarnation, he doesn’t have faith in the Rinpoche system of identifying little kids who are supposedly reincarnations of specific lamas. As he pointed out, everyone’s reincarnated, not just lamas.

“Our community still suffers from following rituals and not looking at the creed. It’s not about religion but psychology.” He mentioned that meditation is about attempting to lose negative thoughts. What a challenge, given the conditioning we grow up with!

“I have no authority except my big ego.”

“Identifying with religion gives you pressure to identify yourself,” said the David who’s from Florida.

“Labels are very misleading. If you identify with the label, attachment comes,” Tenzin Choegyal said. He talked quite a bit about labels, including money, which is just paper, but we’ve labeled it and given it the meaning of currency, so we accept it. “How do you remove the label? If you skillfully handle it, it’s OK. Nonself of the self, all names are labels. Even a label is subjective. All depends on how we handle it.” He said, “I think I’m talking like a wise person, but I’m not.” But he wasn’t done with labels yet, saying that “I” and “myself” are just labels; “it’s functional, but it lacks all substantiality.”

“We tend to return to events that are pleasant and block out unpleasant events. It goes to things not being the way we want.” I guess that’s how people are nostalgic; they remember a vacation and focus on the good parts.

He said, “I don’t like rituals…I don’t like temples.” At some point in the conversation, he said, “I’m kind of a nut, you know.”

John said, “All of us are in some continuity of mental balance.” Mine certainly is drastically off kilter.

Richard asked about depression and meditation, and Tenzin said to embrace it. “Probably it’s grounded in self-centeredness.” Tenzin experienced depression during the winter (seasonal affective disorder). Depression is physical and mental, interdependently between the physical and spiritual. He went to doctors, was diagnosed as bipolar, which is both depression and mania. A doctor treated him with lithium. “Incidentally, the greatest deposit of lithium is in Tibet.” It helped and people were encouraging. Depression is what drove him to a regular meditation practice, and he’s feeling so much better because of it. Now he’s focused on studying the dharma.

“When people are desperate, thoughts are going everywhere. Then I became interested in Buddhism and it helped. People who become depressed are undisciplined. We are meditating all the time, but not properly.” I have come to the conclusion that I shall have to leave Kansas in order to truly make progress with meditation; as long as I dwell there, I shall make one step forward to every fifty steps back.

“What if you were in that role [Rinpoche], and it was discovered you were bipolar?” someone asked.
“They’d know they made a mistake,” Tenzin replied. “We are all reincarnates from previous lives—identifying reincarnation, it only exists in Tibet, and I don’t know why—this continuity of the practice and to a particular lineage. In history, it became a problem. I personally don’t feel it’s a good idea.”
“Why?”
“Look at me…. There are many loopholes—it is not handled properly, a tulku becomes a symbol of earthly existence. When I talk like this, people think I’m a traitor.”

“Do you discuss this with your brother?”
“He accepts.”

“There’ve been a lot of books written on mindfulness,” Richard said.
“And they made a lot of money,” Tenzin said with a grin. He encouraged us to read root text (as a Theravada practitioner, I translate that as, in particular, the Pali canon, which is more or less the words of the Buddha, passed down for centuries). He added, “We should read more deeply and study more deeply.”

Marsha said, “Your wife is a delight. How did you meet her?”

“I don’t think she’s a delight,” Tenzin said. They met in Darjeeling when she was in college, in 1964.

“Are there arranged marriages in Tibet?”

“It was self-arranged.” He added that they first met in a movie theater; the film was George Scott Flimflam Man. I’ve never heard of it.

Someone asked him about nonviolence, and Tenzin said, “Nonviolence—most people think it’s passive, but it’s active. You’ve got to have the right understanding.”

He went on to talk about attachment and emptiness, and dependent origination, not to mention impermanence and our failure to recognize things as impermanent, which leads to suffering. “If you have tremendous anger, impermanence means it’ll go away.” Rather relevant to his comments about political parties, Tenzin talked about how attachment causes “lots of arguments take place.”

“What are your views on vegetarianism?” Natalie asked.
“I’m strictly nonvegetarian.” He added, “I think it’s very desirable to be vegetarian. But you must get requirements for your body. Among Tibetans—Younger ones are becoming vegetarian, it’s becoming more common. Tibetans subsist on carbohydrates in monasteries, some have overweight, have diabetes, not enough exercise.” Tenzin said. “Three cheers for vegetarianism!”

“In attachment to the Tibetan land, is there a difference between generations?” Paula asked.
“I have walked on the soil of so-called Tibet. Yes, there is a difference. Sons and daughters have not been there, and it’s all a mind thing.”

“I think human beings are going through an evolution. I don’t think one hundred years ago people talked about this,” someone said.
“Jews did—going back to the land,” Paula said.

“Everyone in the world thinks Tibetans are perfect!” Tenzin said with a laugh. “If Tibet becomes peaceful, where spiritual pursuit is encouraged, I’d go for it. Otherwise, I’m happy elsewhere.” Someone asked him why people think Tibetans are perfect, and he said, “I think it’s because of the novel Lost Horizons by James Hilton.”

He mentioned that he thinks a family person has more compassion than a sangha member; if you’re around difficult people rather than secluded, then you have on-hands experience practicing compassion and all. This has certainly occurred to me often enough, but if you’re in such a painful situation that you’re crippled with depression all the time, you’ve got to get out of that unhealthy situation; I don’t think that meditation alone is enough, even though part of my sense of guilt and my staying in Kansas so long is because I read that an enlightened being is happy no matter where they are.

Tenzin is highly critical of the Tibetan monastic system and explained that it’s intellectual understanding rather than practice. (Well, they do practice meditation and chanting, but that’s not the same thing as experiencing equanimity when mean people are attacking you. It’s much more challenging to practice when you’re not in a monastery.) He said some people join the monastery because they get free food. Basically, there are some things he likes about Tibetan Buddhism (otherwise he wouldn’t be so into studying the dharma now), and other things he doesn’t like about Tibetan Buddhism. He would like practice to be more secular.

“Mishandling freedom is a universal problem,” Tenzin said, reminding me how unfathomably hypocritical war-mongering white male Americans are with their talk of freedom, when obviously they don’t even know what it means. “The most difficult thing to do today is how to handle freedom.”

“I can’t resist…” John said.
“Go ahead. Use your freedom,” Tenzin said.
John is critical of the level of monasticism and the Dalai Lama’s support of this. He called it “confinement of thought of the worst kind.” He said, “Isn’t this monasticism a cancer to the Tibetan cause?”
“I share your view,” Tenzin said. “In monasteries we have trouble with discipline. Are these people genuine?” John mentioned that nobody agreed with him about this, but as it turned out the Dalai Lama’s brother agrees with him.
“Shantum, why did you bring him to this kind of teaching?” Tenzin asked with a grin.

“I really know nothing,” Tenzin said. “My ignorance—I’m an exhibitionist. I like to show off. I’m quite sincere in my feeling. I try to call a spade a spade.”

Tenzin said, “The Tibetan issue—it’s a small speck.” This has occurred to me often enough, like when I’ve donated to the International Campaign to Tibet, even though I don’t think that organization is half as important as the Global Fund for Women. “The Tibetan problem comes from carelessness, not caring, so what does it say?”

“Why did the Dalai Lama mostly read from the Dhammapada?” someone asked, and several people expressed dismay that the Dalai Lama did this.

“I think we should go on strike?” Tenzin said. Someone asked if he has discussed this with his brother, but he said, “Since the teachings, I haven’t seen him. I’m a crowd-shy guy.”
He also said, “I think it’s a genuine grievance here.” For those who don’t speak Tibetan, the lack of commentary is not fair.

“He’s teaching primarily for the Tibetan community,” Shantum said. Some Tibetans are illiterate or barely literate, or otherwise have reasons why they won’t ever get a hold of the Dhammapada; Westerners on the other hand can easily get it in English at a bookstore or library.

“But that doesn’t help these people,” Tenzin said. “I’m listening at home on the FM. I thought it was odd that he didn’t explain for two days…in his commentary, tremendously powerful.”

“It’s different when we criticize, different than when you do,” Stacy said.

Tenzin said, “For people who are interested in spiritual tradition, study it, and study it in groups, with no leader.”

After a little more discussion, Tenzin asked, “Any more questions?” He looked around the room, but we were silent. “I think everyone is shocked.”

The discussion went to plans for having dinner at Kashmir Cottage. “Can someone give me a ride?” Tenzin asked.
“No, you have to walk.”

Our lively and enthusiastic discussion lasted at least two hours. Although I enjoyed it, and Natalie was also there, my cold was terrible, and I went to bed afterwards, like around eight, rather than have dinner.

People were leaving and I was in the little hallway outside the living room, where we all put on our shoes. Only a couple of other people were in the room as I slipped into my boots. Since I wasn’t up to having dinner, I said to Sheila, “If anyone asks about me, I’m going to take a shower and go to bed.” She’s had the same cold (or probably the same cold) that I have and said that resting did her a lot of good, so she knew what I was going through. I was so exhausted! I went to bed at about eight o’clock, and a servant guy came with the hot water bottles when I was already in bed. I think I startled him.

“No dinner?” he asked.

“No, I’ve got a cold. I need rest,” I said, and thanked him as I took the water bottle. He apologized, and I think I might have sounded grumpy and regretted it, but I didn’t mean to sound that way. When I’m feeling ill, I say things like that and afterwards suspect I wasn’t polite—this was one of those situations.

Norbulingka Institute

Some of us climbed into the taxis but others (including moi, as Miss Piggy would say) walked to the next place: the Norbulingka Institute. It was only about a mile away. I greatly enjoyed the walk, on such a beautiful and bright sunny day. On the left side of the narrow dirt road, we passed cows standing around and chewing their cud at a barnyard. On the right side, we passed fields of yellow flowers, bright green tall grass, and some idyllic trees. John and Lynn got so far ahead of me that John became concerned and went back to make sure I didn’t get lost. I think someone else was quite a bit behind me. The view and route seemed flat compared to the valley and dizzying roads we’d been using in Dharamsala.

The Norbulingka Institute, a beautiful and idyllic place where Tibetan arts and crafts are taught and kept alive, is a registered trust under the leadership of the Dalai Lama, and it is preserving Tibetan culture. This complex includes: offices and reception, guest house, café, workshops, academy for Tibetan culture, Deden Tsukhang (the Seat of Happiness Temple), Norling Arts Shop, and the Losel Doll Museum.

At the Norbulingka Institute, we passed through a Tibetan-style gateway into a courtyard of tree-lined paths, landscaping, potted plants, ponds and waterfalls. It was like paradise—or perhaps I should say it was like Shangri-la. I noticed in the distance Shantum talking on a cell phone, and his posture and movements suggested that he was impatient. I tried to ignore this as we followed a path up to a café, where we sat at small round tables in front of a Tibetan-style building colorfully painted in flowery murals, and a couple of young Tibetans gave us menus and took our orders. I sat with Sheila, Lynn, and John, and a very friendly brown dog came along and let Sheila and me pet her.

John’s lunch came first, and it looked yummy, a stir-fry concoction, while I waited for my lunch. Maybe it was just as well I overdid the snack at the nunnery. Finally after everyone except me had lunch, the waiter came back to the table, and John reminded him that I didn’t have my lunch yet, and the waiter finally informed me that they didn’t have that particular dish; so I pointed at John’s plate and said, “I’ll have that instead.” The lunch, when it finally came, was as delicious as it had looked on John’s plate. Meanwhile, I enjoyed the company of the other people at my table, to say nothing of the dog.

On the previous day, Jagdish had handed me his cell phone, and Bina had informed me that it turns out that the travel agent hadn’t mentioned $300 that I still owed for staying in Kathmandu. Sitting at the Norbulingka café after finishing my lunch, I wrote a check and gave it to Shantum, who suddenly snapped at me. He began by saying imperiously, “Ms. Susan;” it’s odd how people most often use my name when they’re chastising me as though I were a bad little girl, an attitude that has not improved my relationship with my name—but going by a different name wouldn’t make it any better, because no doubt people would use it the same way. That might indeed be the reason why I almost never address people by their names.
In short, Shantum demanded to know why I wrote “so many checks.” I was shocked by his behavior, in part because I had already had this discussion, or rather a much more civil version of it, with Bina via e-mail, when I explained that I was concerned about checks getting lost in the mail, and she had informed me that the bank charges a fee for every check and that if the check didn’t get to them, I could cancel it. Since I was deeply shocked and hurt by Shantum’s behavior (even though it was nothing compared to the verbal attacks I have continually received from relatives ever since I moved to Kansas), I did not know what to say and spoke in a stilted voice. “I wrote this check because Bina called the other day and said I owed another three hundred dollars for Kathmandu.”

Shantum sternly explained in front of everyone why it was a nuisance to receive so many checks. The entire time he spoke, I sat slumped in my chair, staring at my lap and not seeing anything, and feeling deeply humiliated and hurt. Without even knowing what he was saying, I muttered a couple things like, “Oh, is that so,” and, “I didn’t know,” and felt too shocked and incapable of speech to actually point out to him that Bina had explained everything to me.
During last year’s pilgrimage, Shantum had seemed very nurturing and supportive and kind, and he had paid me complements (the opposite of what I am accustomed to) and had seemed to have a grasp of psychology, since he figured out that I’m shy. I had subconsciously turned him into a surrogate mother to make up for my verbally abusive relatives and for the fact that I had been bullied instead of nurtured throughout my childhood. Shantum was the second person I stupidly turned into a surrogate mother and who had rejected me. I finally figured out that the only person who can nurture me is myself.

While we still sat at the café tables, Shantum also acted impatient with Mimi for not being decisive about what she wanted to do this afternoon. I put on a cheerful façade and said, “Somebody’s a grumpy Buddha.” John and Lynn got a good laugh out of that, but it didn’t change my overwhelming sense of rejection and despair.

Another “mother” had rejected me and once again I was completely rootless. I have known since the age of five that I am on my own and that nobody is around to truly nurture me, so it is absurd for me to not be accustomed and resigned to this. If I were not still traumatized by my childhood, if I had not just been through six years of regular verbal abuse from relatives, and if I had not put Shantum up on a pedestal and turned him into a surrogate mother, I would not be hurt by his behavior.

The Norbulingka Institute is a remarkable learning center where Tibetans learn and practice woodworking, thangka painting, making appliquéd thangkas and banners, furniture building, and other crafts. We climbed precarious stairs and passed stone structures, including a wall that curved around dramatically. I should have enjoyed the tour, but the entire time I felt so humiliated and ashamed of whom I am, that it was as if a dark raincloud hovered above me and nobody else. A Tibetan boy gave us a tour of the Institute before the group went on our own, and while I should have been excited to see students painting thangkas in a studio with the Dalai Lama’s voice on the radio, and to see colorful murals on a woodworking studio’s walls while students built an embossed cabinet or wardrobe, I wanted to be invisible.

After we parted with the tour guide, we ended up in a gift shop, but I didn’t feel like buying anything and would have been very ashamed if I had done so. But really, I feel ashamed of everything I do and of being myself. I wish I could be someone else, a decent human being, someone whom people respect, but I’m stuck with being a worthless loser. Feeling miserable and dejected, I idly wandered around the shop while everyone else seemed to be eagerly chatting and looking at merchandise. I would have preferred to go to the doll museum, but it had a separate entrance fee and I didn’t think I would have enough time, for I was under the impression that we would be leaving soon.

People dispersed from the gift shop, and I overheard some people, including Paula and Richard, were going to the temple, and so I tagged along. In the center of the Norbulingka Institute is a standard Tibetan temple with a shiny gold roof and with colorful murals galore. I followed the others up the temple steps and stared around at the murals. I looked down at my feet and to my utter embarrassment saw that I was still wearing my hiking boots. I hurried back to the entrance to slip them off. I couldn’t even feel good in a Buddhist temple; the positive energy that it might have contained did not penetrate the oppressive raincloud that surrounded me.

In the taxi with Shantum and me, Etiel said something about Shantum as a tour guide, and I made a sarcastic remark in response. She said, “I think he’s doing a fabulous job! It’s hard to be a guide for so many people.” She said it plenty loud enough for Shantum to hear, and she tapped the top of his seat back.

Shantum said, “I am unemployable.” He added something to the effect that people have labeled him “unemployable.”

“I know the feeling,” I said, thinking nobody could be as unemployable as I, but Etiel also agreed, although it was hard for me to think of her as unemployable. Shantum proceeded to talk about some of his previous employment, how he’d get a job and try to do it his way, but his employers didn’t want him to do it his way. He worked for one dollar a year for the UN for six years, and he tried to make the program work, but the UN didn’t like the way he did things.

After a brief pause in the conversation, Shantum brought up the subject of my pilgrimage memoir, and of my including the notes I took during his storytelling. He said, “I’m not sure it’s kosher, you see. It took me twenty years of research. Penguin has a contract for me to write a book, and it’s been sitting on my desk—I just haven’t gotten around to it.”

I explained that the book is about both my path and the Buddha’s path, and that I wrote his comments in quotation marks, as dialogue. I also said that I’d go ahead and send him the current draft by snail mail, since it’s five hundred pages and would be easier to read in print rather than on a computer screen.

In the late afternoon to early evening we went to a tea plantation, or more specifically the tea plantation owner’s guesthouse, to admire the view and watch the sunset. The guesthouse included two charming white bungalows, and we went through the main building, admired the décor in the process, and went through glass doors at the back of the house to step out into the back yard. There we had a view not of tea plants as I had expected, but of what looked like a forest touching the borders of the yard, and best of all we saw the Himalayas in the distance.
We met a very friendly older man, whom I at first thought was the owner of the plantation, but he was more like the butler; he wore a business suit and a blue turban and spoke English very fluently, with more or less a British accent. He told us all about the plantation and the guesthouse. (We even saw Western guests sit out on the patio at some point in the evening).

Male servants in dark brown Nehru suits served us beverages, and they set up a table with tea and snacks, something breaded and similar to tempura vegetables, with green minty dipping sauce. I got a small plate and would have served myself a tiny portion, but Jagdish served me a generous portion of breaded veggies and sauce. He knows my gluttonous ways too well. If I had not been around people, I would have eaten nothing for the rest of the day, because I didn’t think I deserved to eat.

While those of us who had gone on this particular outing—for it was not the entire sangha—sat admiring the view and snacking, we had a discussion. Shantum reminded us that today is Thursday and we need to turn in our Mindfulness Training essays tomorrow. This led to some discussion about the Mindfulness Training, which a surprising number of people have said they wish to do, even though some of them aren’t even Buddhists. Not that I’m into labels or identification with just one religion or spiritual tradition. I much prefer the word “spirituality” to “religion,” of course.

Marsha asked about alcohol and said that she drinks wine at night. Shantum said, “You should drink mindfully and think about whether you’re causing suffering…and you might just end up swearing off alcohol.” Shantum explained that originally he only did four trainings; he didn’t drink alcohol and was at the time only interested in ganja. (I had no idea what ganja is, but since then I have looked it up and learned that it’s a Sanskrit or Hindi word for “marijuana.”)
“The Mindfulness Trainings aren’t vows, they’re just guidelines,” Shantum said. He said that at the wedding, he drank two sips of champagne, because they were doing a toast; he wasn’t going to drink, but someone put a glass in his hand. I was surprised to hear he actually drank even that much; the pilgrimage last year had seemed very anti-alcohol, and I had been comfortable with this after reading Sharon Salzburg’s remarks about alcohol and meditation being a bad mix. If you drink in front of children, Shantum said, “you’re planting the seed of alcohol in them.” (I’m glad my brother doesn’t drink in front of Malcolm.)

The topic of vegetarianism also came up. Someone said that animals feel fear, know that they’re going to be killed—on some level of consciousness, but they’re in fear when they’re about to die. Shantum said, “There are fear toxins in the meat—you’re eating fear.” (There’s another reason for me to see meat eating as unclean.) There are plenty of other reasons for being vegetarian, such as it’s much more ecological and economical to plant fields and eat the grains or produce directly rather than have animals grazing, using up the grain and causing deforestation, but I don’t think that came up in the conversation. And in my experience, taste buds are a perfectly sensible reason to be a vegetarian, even if it is self-centered and trivial compared to other reasons. I don’t need to do Mindfulness Trainings for that; laying off sweets and aspiring to use something that vaguely passes off as mindful speech are the biggest challenges for me when it comes to the Mindfulness Trainings, which I did on the pilgrimage last year.

Shantum talked a little about Indian vegetarianism and said that it is perfectly acceptable in Indian vegetarian tradition to eat eggs. Despite my overwhelming self-hate and rejection, I actually spoke up at this point. I said, “I’m not a vegan, but ninety-five percent of chickens in the United States live in inhumane conditions, packed tightly into cages and never seeing the light of day. That’s a good reason to refrain from eating eggs.” I have gotten the impression that chickens are treated the same way in Ireland; I remember eating a great many eggs there but only seeing chickens once. In India, however, it’s not unusual to see chickens and chicks running around, like so many animals in India.

Shantum, referring to his younger days, said he was “a guy with no limits, like a free bird,” only he wasn’t free because he was “trapped in samsara.” So the Mindfulness Trainings have been his guidelines.

You take refuge in the Buddha three times for these reasons: 1) the Buddha Shakyamuni, 2) your potential for awakening, and 3) your awakening. “This mindfulness practice is your refuge,” Shantum said. He also used the word “aspiration.”

We stayed at the tea plantation long enough to admire the sunset as Shantum had proposed earlier. I could see a very bright pinkish-orangey sunset between trees. We went around to the front of the house, and while people stood around talking and I didn’t feel like talking to anybody, I watched the sunset amid other trees that, since it was getting darker, looked like black silhouettes. The sunset was bright orange and very dramatic.

Here is my new insight poem:

Mindful Trek

Mindful steps over rough terrain
rocks glistening in the sun
sparrows singing and crows cawing
elk footprints and rhododendron trees
the scent of pine and cedar
hawks soaring in blueness with a backdrop
of snow-capped triangular mountains
are more spiritual to me
than any temple or ceremony.

During our dinner conversation at Cloud’s End, I heard such unusual phrases as, “Rather dishy monk” and “I think he’s rather yummy”—the sisters Jill and Pat were commenting on the Dalai Lam’s translator. As listening to them often is, it was like being in a British sitcom. They have charming British accents and are around seventy years old. Someone asked for my opinion and I said, “Yes, I think he’s attractive.” At some point, I did add, “but he’s Tibetan, so what do you expect?” but I don’t think anyone heard me in the big echoic room with all the talking going on.

The sentence, “Shantum is angry with me,” became a sort of mantra that I repeated in my head over and over again. At some point it shifted to: “Shantum despises me.” The unkosher aspect of my book dawned on me more and more in the evening, and I felt very foolish and ashamed for not having realized it. By midnight, I became convinced that I’ve done something horrible.

I had foolishly thought that if I went back to India, I’d again experience the bliss, happiness and confidence that I had had on the pilgrimage last year; I had, in short, tried to run away from my depression. But no matter how far I travel, I can never get away from myself.

Despite this depression, I began to very dubiously think that maybe there’s a possibility that my book will be fine without the notes…but it will have to at least include summaries of why each location was important to the Buddha, and I should still send it to Shantum. From what I have read about trying to get nonfiction books published, I have the impression that no publisher would be willing to publish the stupid book unless it had Shantum’s written approval, since he was the meditation teacher and tour guide.

The Nunnery in Dharamsala

On the Internet, I had seen a headline about Clinton and Obama, and at Cloud’s End I saw a newspaper lying on a table outside my room. It was before 4 am, when I woke from a disturbing dream. In this dream, a newspaper lay on a small table in front of me. I learned that Hillary Clinton had had a bad experience with a taxi driver—I forget what the argument was about, but the driver murdered her whole family in vengeance. I was shocked and horrified with this news, such evil behavior, and suddenly I woke up.

These are photos that I took at the Dolma Ling Nunnery in Dharamsala. It's the site of the Tibetan Nuns Project, which is about educating nuns on the same level as monks, since they have been neglected in what is yet another patriarchal culture.

We took several taxi cabs to the Dolma Ling Nunnery, a large grouping of two- to three-story white and red buildings that look pretty new. The architecture was simple and streamlined, and I’m tempted to say it looks more Indian than Tibetan, but it was impressive nonetheless. We met up and a couple of young women in chupas led us in. We walked across an attractive paved courtyard with steps and bushy plants. Surrounding the courtyard were white columns forming a sort of cloister. We climbed the steps into one of the buildings and thus entered the main hall of the Dolma Ling Nunnery.

The main hall is set up like a basic traditional Tibetan prayer hall, with long red cushioned benches facing each other and running parallel to the length of the room, and with a dais at the far end of the room, facing the doors. In the center of the dais was a brocade-draped throne displaying a large framed photo of the Fourteenth Dalai Lama. Behind the throne was a huge, colorful appliquéd tapestry, and to either side of it were glass cabinets holding traditional manuscripts and statues. Shantum led a meditation sitting, and I felt relaxed. Then he asked one of us to read from a sutra, originally given by the Buddha’s buddy Shariputra, on ways to put away anger. It is called the Discourse On the Five Ways of Ending Anger and was originally recited in Sravasti.

Courtyard, where the debates take place.

Entrance to meditation hall

Throne in meditation hall; a photo of the Dalai Lama sits on the throne. Behind it is an appliqued wall hanging.

The Dolma Ling Tibetan Nuns Project was set up in the early 1990s when nuns started coming here. The seventh Dalai Lama set up Dolma Ling in (scribble) arts and crafts—that’s here.Some people are taking a quick trip to Norbulingka Center and going to the Dalai Lama’s teachings. The rest of us followed a couple of Tibetan women to the video room to see a film called A Day in the Life of Dolma Ling.

I wrote some notes based on the documentary. The nunnery was established in 1991: 180 nuns from Tibet, Spiti, and Ladakh. It also includes a few female laypeople. The construction was completed in 2005. The nunnery will have a solar hot water system, but it’s not constructed yet. It has a clinic and even an Internet room. The nunnery includes a staff of about two hundred, including teachers. The Dalai Lama and the Tibetan Nuns Project have helped to give women opportunities for study, progress, and respect—for them to obtain full ordination. They have their own cows and sheep and fields and produce a lot of their own stuff, but they don’t yet grow their own vegetables, but will at some point. They also make their own tofu.

http://www.tnp.org/ = Tibetan Nuns Project

Tibetan manuscripts (top left shelf) and statues in cabinet

Views of the appliqued wall hanging behind the throne. Sakyamuni Buddha and Green Tara.

Avalokiteshvara (Bodhisattva of Compassion) and Buddha

Sand mandala preserved under glass. Usually these are destroyed shortly after they're made, demonstrating impermanence.

View from roof (as are most of the following photos)

Water supply for the nunnery

We took a tour that included, among other places, the computer room and the library upstairs. We took our time in the library, a spacious room with many rows of glass-door bookcases, most of which had plenty of space for more books. I noticed that some books were in English. In a far corner was a wooden and glass cabinet containing a sand mandala. We stepped out onto a balcony with a stunning view of the mountains. Some of them are topped with snow in the distance, and the sky was bright blue. Someone asked why a row of trees was chopped up so much, concerned that it might be for the ironic reason that the trees obstructed the view; but no, it’s because the branches are used for firewood and they will grow back. We stood on the large balcony, which had tubular gold ornaments at the corners, and we looked out at the water system tank, which involves a tank (the water kind), a building, and big black cylindrical tubs. We went back inside, to a large room with a cabinet displaying free copies of Tibetan Nuns Project newsletters and post cards, and we helped ourselves.

Snow lion sculptures over a doorway

Back to the courtyard

Rinchen Kunun, a Tibetan woman in an elegant dark green chupa, is Head of the Tibetan Nuns Project, and she also runs the guesthouse Kashmir Cottage, where about half of our sangha are staying. She has worked for the Tibetan government in exile, but her pet project is the Tibetan Nuns Project. She has been the head of the Tibetan Women’s Association in the past. She also happens to be married to the Dalai Lama’s brother, Tenzin Choegyal, who was identified as a Rinpoche but stepped down because the job didn’t suit him. We had a great interview with her at a long table, where we munched on snacks and drinking tea.

I took way too many snacks, having not considered that we’d be eating lunch before terribly long. The flaky sugary cookies were irresistible, and unfortunately by the time it occurred to me that I shouldn’t have taken so many cookies, it also occurred to me that I’d better clean my plate rather than waste food. Flakes for the flakey.

Hello, Himalayas

Among other things, as we neared the end of the talk, someone asked, “Are the nuns now writing commentary on texts?”

Rinchen Kunun replied, “Yes, they’re beginning to do it, and it’s so exciting to have commentary from a female point of view.”

Appliqued wall hanging with names of donors on leaves